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Andersonville, vol 4
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Title: Andersonville, v4
Author: John McElroy
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Note: The Complete Andersonville may be found under this PG listing: Feb 2002 Andersonville, by John

McElroy[#2 by John McElroy][andvl10.xxx]3072
ANDERSONVILLE A STORY OF REBEL MILITARY PRISONS
FIFTEEN MONTHS A GUEST OF THE SO-CALLED SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY
A PRIVATE SOLDIERS EXPERIENCE IN RICHMOND, ANDERSONVILLE, SAVANNAH, MILLEN
BLACKSHEAR AND FLORENCE
BY JOHN McELROY Late of Co. L. 16th Ill Cav. 1879
VOLUME 4.
CHAPTER LXII
.
SERGEANT LEROY L. KEY HIS ADVENTURES SUBSEQUENT TO THE EXECUTIONS HE GOES
OUTSIDE AT ANDERSONVILLE ON PAROLE LABORS IN THE COOK-HOUSE ATTEMPTS TO
ESCAPE IS RECAPTURED AND TAKEN TO MACON ESCAPES FROM THERE, BUT IS
COMPELLED TO RETURN IS FINALLY EXCHANGED AT SAVANNAH.
Leroy L. Key, the heroic Sergeant of Company M, Sixteenth Illinois Cavalry, who organized and led the
Regulators at Andersonville in their successful conflict with and defeat of the Raiders, and who presided at the
execution of the six condemned men on the 11th of July, furnishes, at the request of the author, the following
story of his prison career subsequent to that event:
On the 12th day of July, 1864, the day after the hanging of the six Raiders, by the urgent request of my many
friends (of whom you were one), I sought and obtained from Wirz a parole for myself and the six brave men
who assisted as executioners of those desperados. It seemed that you were all fearful that we might, after what
had been done, be assassinated if we remained in the Stockade; and that we might be overpowered, perhaps,
by the friends of the Raiders we had hanged, at a time possibly, when you would not be on hand to give us
assistance, and thus lose our lives for rendering the help we did in getting rid of the worst pestilence we had to
contend with.
On obtaining my parole I was very careful to have it so arranged and mutually understood, between Wirz and
myself, that at any time that my squad (meaning the survivors of my comrades, with whom I was originally
captured) was sent away from Andersonville, either to be exchanged or to go to another prison, that I should
be allowed to go with them. This was agreed to, and so written in my parole which I carried until it absolutely
wore out. I took a position in the cook-house, and the other boys either went to work there, or at the hospital
or grave-yard as occasion required. I worked here, and did the best I could for the many starving wretches

inside, in the way of preparing their food, until the eighth day of September, at which time, if you remember,
quite a train load of men were removed, as many of us thought, for the purpose of exchange; but, as we
afterwards discovered, to be taken to another prison. Among the crowd so removed was my squad, or, at least,
a portion of them, being my intimate mess-mates while in the Stockade. As soon as I found this to be the case
I waited on Wirz at his office, and asked permission to go with them, which he refused, stating that he was
CHAPTER LXII 6
compelled to have men at the cookhouse to cook for those in the Stockade until they were all gone or
exchanged. I reminded him of the condition in my parole, but this only had the effect of making him mad, and
he threatened me with the stocks if I did not go back and resume work. I then and there made up my mind to
attempt my escape, considering that the parole had first been broken by the man that granted it.
On inquiry after my return to the cook-house, I found four other boys who were also planning an escape, and
who were only too glad to get me to join them and take charge of the affair. Our plans were well laid and well
executed, as the sequel will prove, and in this particular my own experience in the endeavor to escape from
Andersonville is not entirely dissimilar from yours, though it had different results. I very much regret that in
the attempt I lost my penciled memorandum, in which it was my habit to chronicle what went on around me
daily, and where I had the names of my brave comrades who made the effort to escape with me.
Unfortunately, I cannot now recall to memory the name of one of them or remember to what commands they
belonged.
I knew that our greatest risk was run in eluding the guards, and that in the morning we should be compelled to
cheat the blood-hounds. The first we managed to do very well, not without many hairbreadth escapes,
however; but we did succeed in getting through both lines of guards, and found ourselves in the densest pine
forest I ever saw. We traveled, as nearly as we could judge, due north all night until daylight. From our fatigue
and bruises, and the long hours that had elapsed since 8 o'clock, the time of our starting, we thought we had
come not less than twelve or fifteen miles. Imagine our surprise and mortification, then, when we could
plainly hear the reveille, and almost the Sergeant's voice calling the roll, while the answers of "Here!" were
perfectly distinct. We could not possibly have been more than a mile, or a mile-and-a-half at the farthest, from
the Stockade.
Our anxiety and mortification were doubled when at the usual hour as we supposed we heard the
well-known and long-familiar sound of the hunter's horn, calling his hounds to their accustomed task of
making the circuit of the Stockade, for the purpose of ascertaining whether or not any "Yankee" had had the

audacity to attempt an escape. The hounds, anticipating, no doubt, this usual daily work, gave forth glad barks
of joy at being thus called forth to duty. We heard them start, as was usual, from about the railroad depot (as
we imagined), but the sounds growing fainter and fainter gave us a little hope that our trail had been missed.
Only a short time, however, were we allowed this pleasant reflection, for ere long it could not have been
more than an hour we could plainly see that they were drawing nearer and nearer. They finally appeared so
close that I advised the boys to climb a tree or sapling in order to keep the dogs from biting them, and to be
ready to surrender when the hunters came up, hoping thus to experience as little misery as possible, and not
dreaming but that we were caught. On, on came the hounds, nearer and nearer still, till we imagined that we
could see the undergrowth in the forest shaking by coming in contact with their bodies. Plainer and plainer
came the sound of the hunter's voice urging them forward. Our hearts were in our throats, and in the terrible
excitement we wondered if it could be possible for Providence to so arrange it that the dogs would pass us.
This last thought, by some strange fancy, had taken possession of me, and I here frankly acknowledge that I
believed it would happen. Why I believed it, God only knows. My excitement was so great, indeed, that I
almost lost sight of our danger, and felt like shouting to the dogs myself, while I came near losing my hold on
the tree in which I was hidden. By chance I happened to look around at my nearest neighbor in distress. His
expression was sufficient to quell any enthusiasm I might have had, and I, too, became despondent. In a very
few minutes our suspense was over. The dogs came within not less than three hundred yards of us, and we
could even see one of them, God in Heaven can only imagine what great joy was then, brought to our aching
hearts, for almost instantly upon coming into sight, the hounds struck off on a different trail, and passed us.
Their voices became fainter and fainter, until finally we could hear them no longer. About noon, however,
they were called back and taken to camp, but until that time not one of us left our position in the trees.
When we were satisfied that we were safe for the present, we descended to the ground to get what rest we
could, in order to be prepared for the night's march, having previously agreed to travel at night and sleep in
the day time. "Our Father, who art in Heaven," etc., were the first words that escaped my lips, and the first
CHAPTER LXII 7
thoughts that came to my mind as I landed on terra firma. Never before, or since, had I experienced such a
profound reverence for Almighty God, for I firmly believe that only through some mighty invisible power
were we at that time delivered from untold tortures. Had we been found, we might have been torn and
mutilated by the dogs, or, taken back to Andersonville, have suffered for days or perhaps weeks in the stocks
or chain gang, as the humor of Wirz might have dictated at the time either of which would have been almost

certain death.
It was very fortunate for us that before our escape from Andersonville we were detailed at the cook-house, for
by this means we were enabled to bring away enough food to live for several days without the necessity of
theft. Each one of us had our haversacks full of such small delicacies as it was possible for us to get when we
started, these consisting of corn bread and fat bacon nothing less, nothing more. Yet we managed to subsist
comfortably until our fourth day out, when we happened to come upon a sweet potato patch, the potatos in
which had not been dug. In a very short space of time we were all well supplied with this article, and lived on
them raw during that day and the next night.
Just at evening, in going through a field, we suddenly came across three negro men, who at first sight of us
showed signs of running, thinking, as they told us afterward, that we were the "patrols." After explaining to
them who we were and our condition, they took us to a very quiet retreat in the woods, and two of them went
off, stating that they would soon be back. In a very short time they returned laden with well cooked
provisions, which not only gave us a good supper, but supplied us for the next day with all that we wanted.
They then guided us on our way for several miles, and left us, after having refused compensation for what
they had done.
We continued to travel in this way for nine long weary nights, and on the morning of the tenth day, as we
were going into the woods to hide as usual, a little before daylight, we came to a small pond at which there
was a negro boy watering two mules before hitching them to a cane mill, it then being cane grinding time in
Georgia. He saw us at the same time we did him, and being frightened put whip to the animals and ran off.
We tried every way to stop him, but it was no use. He had the start of us. We were very fearful of the
consequences of this mishap, but had no remedy, and being very tired, could do nothing else but go into the
woods, go to sleep and trust to luck.
The next thing I remembered was being punched in the ribs by my comrade nearest to me, and aroused with
the remark, "We are gone up." On opening my eyes, I saw four men, in citizens' dress, each of whom had a
shot gun ready for use. We were ordered to get up. The first question asked us was:
"Who are you."
This was spoken in so mild a tone as to lead me to believe that we might possibly be in the hands of
gentlemen, if not indeed in those of friends. It was some time before any one answered. The boys, by their
looks and the expression of their countenances, seemed to appeal to me for a reply to get them out of their
present dilemma, if possible. Before I had time to collect my thoughts, we were startled by these words,

coming from the same man that had asked the original question:
"You had better not hesitate, for we have an idea who you are, and should it prove that we are correct, it will
be the worse for you."
"'Who do you think we are?' I inquired."
"'Horse thieves and moss-backs,' was the reply."
I jumped at the conclusion instantly that in order to save our lives, we had better at once own the truth. In a
very few words I told them who we were, where we were from, how long we had been on the road, etc. At
CHAPTER LXII 8
this they withdrew a short distance from us for consultation, leaving us for the time in terrible suspense as to
what our fate might be. Soon, how ever, they returned and informed us that they would be compelled to take
us to the County Jail, to await further orders from the Military Commander of the District. While they were
talking together, I took a hasty inventory of what valuables we had on hand. I found in the crowd four silver
watches, about three hundred dollars in Confederate money, and possibly, about one hundred dollars in
greenbacks. Before their return, I told the boys to be sure not to refuse any request I should make. Said I:
"'Gentlemen, we have here four silver watches and several hundred dollars in Confederate money and
greenbacks, all of which we now offer you, if you will but allow us to proceed on our journey, we taking our
own chances in the future.'"
This proposition, to my great surprise, was refused. I thought then that possibly I had been a little indiscreet in
exposing our valuables, but in this I was mistaken, for we had, indeed, fallen into the hands of gentlemen,
whose zeal for the Lost Cause was greater than that for obtaining worldly wealth, and who not only refused
the bribe, but took us to a well-furnished and well-supplied farm house close by, gave us an excellent
breakfast, allowing us to sit at the table in a beautiful dining-room, with a lady at the head, filled our
haversacks with good, wholesome food, and allowed us to keep our property, with an admonition to be careful
how we showed it again. We were then put into a wagon and taken to Hamilton, a small town, the county seat
of Hamilton County, Georgia, and placed in jail, where we remained for two days and nights fearing,
always, that the jail would be burned over our heads, as we heard frequent threats of that nature, by the mob
on the streets. But the same kind Providence that had heretofore watched over us, seemed not to have deserted
us in this trouble.
One of the days we were confined at this place was Sunday, and some kind- hearted lady or ladies (I only
wish I knew their names, as well as those of the gentlemen who had us first in charge, so that I could chronicle

them with honor here) taking compassion upon our forlorn condition, sent us a splendid dinner on a very large
china platter. Whether it was done intentionally or not, we never learned, but it was a fact, however, that there
was not a knife, fork or spoon upon the dish, and no table to set it upon. It was placed on the floor, around
which we soon gathered, and, with grateful hearts, we "got away" with it all, in an incredibly short space of
time, while many men and boys looked on, enjoying our ludicrous attitudes and manners.
From here we were taken to Columbus, Ga., and again placed in jail, and in the charge of Confederate
soldiers. We could easily see that we were gradually getting into hot water again, and that, ere many days, we
would have to resume our old habits in prison. Our only hope now was that we would not be returned to
Andersonville, knowing well that if we got back into the clutches of Wirz our chances for life would be slim
indeed. From Columbus we were sent by rail to Macon, where we were placed in a prison somewhat similar
to Andersonville, but of nothing like its pretensions to security. I soon learned that it was only used as a kind
of reception place for the prisoners who were captured in small squads, and when they numbered two or three
hundred, they would be shipped to Andersonville, or some other place of greater dimensions and strength.
What became of the other boys who were with me, after we got to Macon, I do not know, for I lost sight of
them there. The very next day after our arrival, there were shipped to Andersonville from this prison between
two and three hundred men. I was called on to go with the crowd, but having had a sufficient experience of
the hospitality of that hotel, I concluded to play "old soldier," so I became too sick to travel. In this way I
escaped being sent off four different times.
Meanwhile, quite a large number of commissioned officers had been sent up from Charleston to be exchanged
at Rough and Ready. With them were about forty more than the cartel called for, and they were left at Macon
for ten days or two weeks. Among these officers were several of my acquaintance, one being Lieut. Huntly of
our regiment (I am not quite sure that I am right in the name of this officer, but I think I am), through whose
influence I was allowed to go outside with them on parole. It was while enjoying this parole that I got more
familiarly acquainted with Captain Hurtell, or Hurtrell, who was in command of the prison at Macon, and to
his honor, I here assert, that he was the only gentleman and the only officer that had the least humane feeling
CHAPTER LXII 9
in his breast, who ever had charge of me while a prisoner of war after we were taken out of the hands of our
original captors at Jonesville, Va.
It now became very evident that the Rebels were moving the prisoners from Andersonville and elsewhere, so
as to place them beyond the reach of Sherman and Stoneman. At my present place of confinement the fear of

our recapture had also taken possession of the Rebel authorities, so the prisoners were sent off in much
smaller squads than formerly, frequently not more than ten or fifteen in a gang, whereas, before, they never
thought of dispatching less than two or three hundred together. I acknowledge that I began to get very uneasy,
fearful that the "old soldier" dodge would not be much longer successful, and I would be forced back to my
old haunts. It so happened, however, that I managed to make it serve me, by getting detailed in the prison
hospital as nurse, so that I was enabled to play another "dodge" upon the Rebel officers. At first, when the
Sergeant would come around to find out who were able to walk, with assistance, to the depot, I was shaking
with a chill, which, according to my representation, had not abated in the least for several hours. My teeth
were actually chattering at the time, for I had learned how to make them do so. I was passed. The next day the
orders for removal were more stringent than had yet been issued, stating that all who could stand it to be
removed on stretchers must go. I concluded at once that I was gone, so as soon as I learned how matters were,
I got out from under my dirty blanket, stood up and found I was able to walk, to my great astonishment, of
course. An officer came early in the morning to muster us into ranks preparatory for removal. I fell in with the
rest. We were marched out and around to the gate of the prison.
Now, it so happened that just as we neared the gate of the prison, the prisoners were being marched from the
Stockade. The officer in charge of us we numbering possibly about ten undertook to place us at the head of
the column coming out, but the guard in charge of that squad refused to let him do so. We were then ordered
to stand at one side with no guard over us but the officer who had brought us from the Hospital.
Taking this in at a glance, I concluded that now was my chance to make my second attempt to escape. I
stepped behind the gate office (a small frame building with only one room), which was not more than six feet
from me, and as luck (or Providence) would have it, the negro man whose duty it was, as I knew, to wait on
and take care of this office, and who had taken quite a liking for me, was standing at the back door. I winked
at him and threw him my blanket and the cup, at the same time telling him in a whisper to hide them away for
me until he heard from me again. With a grin and a nod, he accepted the trust, and I started down along the
walls of the Stockade alone. In order to make this more plain, and to show what a risk I was running at the
time, I will state that between the Stockade and a brick wall, fully as high as the Stockade fence that was
parallel with it, throughout its entire length on that side, there was a space of not more than thirty feet. On the
outside of this Stockade was a platform, built for the guards to walk on, sufficiently clear the top to allow
them to look inside with ease, and on this side, on the platform, were three guards. I had traveled about fifty
feet only, from the gate office, when I heard the command to "Halt!" I did so, of course.

"Where are you going, you d d Yank?" said the guard.
"Going after my clothes, that are over there in the wash," pointing to a small cabin just beyond the Stockade,
where I happened to know that the officers had their washing done.
"Oh, yes," said he; "you are one of the Yank's that's been on, parole, are you?"
"Yes."
"Well, hurry up, or you will get left."
The other guards heard this conversation and thinking it all right I was allowed to pass without further trouble.
I went to the cabin in question for I saw the last guard on the line watching me, and boldly entered. I made a
clear statement to the woman in charge of it about how I had made my escape, and asked her to secrete me in
CHAPTER LXII 10
the house until night. I was soon convinced, however, from what she told me, as well as from my own
knowledge of how things were managed in the Confederacy, that it would not be right for me to stay there, for
if the house was searched and I found in it, it would be the worse for her. Therefore, not wishing to entail
misery upon another, I begged her to give me something to eat, and going to the swamp near by, succeeded in
getting well without detection.
I lay there all day, and during the time had a very severe chill and afterwards a burning fever, so that when
night came, knowing I could not travel, I resolved to return to the cabin and spend the night, and give myself
up the next morning. There was no trouble in returning. I learned that my fears of the morning had not been
groundless, for the guards had actually searched the house for me. The woman told them that I had got my
clothes and left the house shortly after my entrance (which was the truth except the part about the clothes), I
thanked her very kindly and begged to be allowed to stay in the cabin till morning, when I would present
myself at Captain H.'s office and suffer the consequences. This she allowed me to do. I shall ever feel grateful
to this woman for her protection. She was white and her given name was "Sallie," but the other I have
forgotten.
About daylight I strolled over near the office and looked around there until I saw the Captain take his seat at
his desk. I stepped into the door as soon as I saw that he was not occupied and saluted him "a la militaire."
"Who are you?" he asked; "you look like a Yank."
"Yes, sir," said I, "I am called by that name since I was captured in the Federal Army."
"Well, what are you doing here, and what is your name?"
I told him.

"Why didn't you answer to your name when it was called at the gate yesterday, sir?"
"I never heard anyone call my name." Where were you?"
"I ran away down into the swamp."
"Were you re-captured and brought back?"
"No, sir, I came back of my own accord."
"What do you mean by this evasion?"
"I am not trying to evade, sir, or I might not have been here now. The truth is, Captain, I have been in many
prisons since my capture, and have been treated very badly in all of them, until I came here."
"I then explained to him freely my escape from Andersonville, and my subsequent re-capture, how it was that
I had played "old soldier" etc.
"Now," said I, "Captain, as long as I am a prisoner of war, I wish to stay with you, or under your command.
This is my reason for running away yesterday, when I felt confident that if I did not do so I would be returned
under Wirz's command, and, if I had been so returned, I would have killed myself rather than submit to the
untold tortures which he would have put me to, for having the audacity to attempt an escape from him."
The Captain's attention was here called to some other matters in hand, and I was sent back into the Stockade
with a command very pleasantly given, that I should stay there until ordered out, which I very gratefully
CHAPTER LXII 11
promised to do, and did. This was the last chance I ever had to talk to Captain Hurtrell, to my great sorrow, for
I had really formed a liking for the man, notwithstanding the fact that he was a Rebel, and a commander of
prisoners.
The next day we all had to leave Macon. Whether we were able or not, the order was imperative. Great was
my joy when I learned that we were on the way to Savannah and not to Andersonville. We traveled over the
same road, so well described in one of your articles on Andersonville, and arrived in Savannah sometime in
the afternoon of the 21st day of November, 1864. Our squad was placed in some barracks and confined there
until the next day. I was sick at the time, so sick in fact, that I could hardly hold my head up. Soon after, we
were taken to the Florida depot, as they told us, to be shipped to some prison in those dismal swamps. I came
near fainting when this was told to us, for I was confident that I could not survive another siege of prison life,
if it was anything to compare to-what I had already suffered. When we arrived at the depot, it was raining.
The officer in charge of us wanted to know what train to put us on, for there were two, if not three, trains
waiting orders to start. He was told to march us on to a certain flat car, near by, but before giving the order he

demanded a receipt for us, which the train officer refused. We were accordingly taken back to our quarters,
which proved to be a most fortunate circumstance.
On the 23d day of November, to our great relief, we were called upon to sign a parole preparatory to being
sent down the river on the flat-boat to our exchange ships, then lying in the harbor. When I say we, I mean
those of us that had recently come from Macon, and a few others, who had also been fortunate in reaching
Savannah in small squads. The other poor fellows, who had already been loaded on the trains, were taken
away to Florida, and many of them never lived to return. On the 24th those of us who had been paroled were
taken on board our ships, and were once more safely housed under that great, glorious and beautiful Star
Spangled Banner. Long may she wave.
CHAPTER LXIII
.
DREARY WEATHER THE COLD RAINS DISTRESS ALL AND KILL HUNDREDS EXCHANGE OF
TEN THOUSAND SICK CAPTAIN BOWES TURNS A PRETTY, BUT NOT VERY HONEST, PENNY.
As November wore away long-continued, chill, searching rains desolated our days and nights. The great, cold
drops pelted down slowly, dismally, and incessantly. Each seemed to beat through our emaciated frames
against the very marrow of our bones, and to be battering its way remorselessly into the citadel of life, like the
cruel drops that fell from the basin of the inquisitors upon the firmly-fastened head of their victim, until his
reason fled, and the death-agony cramped his heart to stillness.
The lagging, leaden hours were inexpressibly dreary. Compared with many others, we were quite comfortable,
as our hut protected us from the actual beating of the rain upon our bodies; but we were much more miserable
than under the sweltering heat of Andersonville, as we lay almost naked upon our bed of pine leaves,
shivering in the raw, rasping air, and looked out over acres of wretches lying dumbly on the sodden sand,
receiving the benumbing drench of the sullen skies without a groan or a motion.
It was enough to kill healthy, vigorous men, active and resolute, with bodies well-nourished and well clothed,
and with minds vivacious and hopeful, to stand these day-and-night-long solid drenchings. No one can
imagine how fatal it was to boys whose vitality was sapped by long months in Andersonville, by coarse,
meager, changeless food, by groveling on the bare earth, and by hopelessness as to any improvement of
condition.
Fever, rheumatism, throat and lung diseases and despair now came to complete the work begun by scurvy,
dysentery and gangrene, in Andersonville.

CHAPTER LXIII 12
Hundreds, weary of the long struggle, and of hoping against hope, laid themselves down and yielded to their
fate. In the six weeks that we were at Millen, one man in every ten died. The ghostly pines there sigh over the
unnoted graves of seven hundred boys, for whom life's morning closed in the gloomiest shadows. As many as
would form a splendid regiment as many as constitute the first born of a populous City more than three
times as many as were slain outright on our side in the bloody battle of Franklin, succumbed to this new
hardship. The country for which they died does not even have a record of their names. They were simply
blotted out of existence; they became as though they had never been.
About the middle of the month the Rebels yielded to the importunities of our Government so far as to agree to
exchange ten thousand sick. The Rebel Surgeons took praiseworthy care that our Government should profit as
little as possible by this, by sending every hopeless case, every man whose lease of life was not likely to
extend much beyond his reaching the parole boat. If he once reached our receiving officers it was all that was
necessary; he counted to them as much as if he had been a Goliath. A very large portion of those sent through
died on the way to our lines, or within a few hours after their transports at being once more under the old Stars
and Stripes had moderated.
The sending of the sick through gave our commandant Captain Bowes a fine opportunity to fill his pockets,
by conniving at the passage of well men. There was still considerable money in the hands of a few prisoners.
All this, and more, too, were they willing to give for their lives. In the first batch that went away were two of
the leading sutlers at Andersonville, who had accumulated perhaps one thousand dollars each by their shrewd
and successful bartering. It was generally believed that they gave every cent to Bowes for the privilege of
leaving. I know nothing of the truth of this, but I am reasonably certain that they paid him very handsomely.
Soon we heard that one hundred and fifty dollars each had been sufficient to buy some men out; then one
hundred, seventy-five, fifty, thirty, twenty, ten, and at last five dollars. Whether the upright Bowes drew the
line at the latter figure, and refused to sell his honor for less than the ruling rates of a street-walker's virtue, I
know not. It was the lowest quotation that came to my knowledge, but he may have gone cheaper. I have
always observed that when men or women begin to traffic in themselves, their price falls as rapidly as that of
a piece of tainted meat in hot weather. If one could buy them at the rate they wind up with, and sell them at
their first price, there would be room for an enormous profit.
The cheapest I ever knew a Rebel officer to be bought was some weeks after this at Florence. The sick
exchange was still going on. I have before spoken of the Rebel passion for bright gilt buttons. It used to be a

proverbial comment upon the small treasons that were of daily occurrence on both sides, that you could buy
the soul of a mean man in our crowd for a pint of corn meal, and the soul of a Rebel guard for a half dozen
brass buttons. A boy of the Fifth-fourth Ohio, whose home was at or near Lima, O., wore a blue vest, with the
gilt, bright-trimmed buttons of a staff officer. The Rebel Surgeon who was examining the sick for exchange
saw the buttons and admired them very much. The boy stepped back, borrowed a knife from a comrade, cut
the buttons off, and handed them to the Doctor.
"All right, sir," said he as his itching palm closed over the coveted ornaments; "you can pass," and pass he did
to home and friends.
Captain Bowes's merchandizing in the matter of exchange was as open as the issuing of rations. His agent in
conducting the bargaining was a Raider a New York gambler and stool-pigeon whom we called "Mattie."
He dealt quite fairly, for several times when the exchange was interrupted, Bowes sent the money back to
those who had paid him, and received it again when the exchange was renewed.
Had it been possible to buy our way out for five cents each Andrews and I would have had to stay back, since
we had not had that much money for months, and all our friends were in an equally bad plight. Like almost
everybody else we had spent the few dollars we happened to have on entering prison, in a week or so, and
since then we had been entirely penniless.
CHAPTER LXIII 13
There was no hope left for us but to try to pass the Surgeons as desperately sick, and we expended our
energies in simulating this condition. Rheumatism was our forte, and I flatter myself we got up two cases that
were apparently bad enough to serve as illustrations for a patent medicine advertisement. But it would not do.
Bad as we made our condition appear, there were so many more who were infinitely worse, that we stood no
show in the competitive examination. I doubt if we would have been given an average of "50" in a report. We
had to stand back, and see about one quarter of our number march out and away home. We could not
complain at this much as we wanted to go ourselves, since there could be no question that these poor fellows
deserved the precedence. We did grumble savagely, however, at Captain Bowes's venality, in selling out
chances to moneyed men, since these were invariably those who were best prepared to withstand the
hardships of imprisonment, as they were mostly new men, and all had good clothes and blankets. We did not
blame the men, however, since it was not in human nature to resist an opportunity to get away at any
cost-from that accursed place. "All that a man hath he will give for his life," and I think that if I had owned the
City of New York in fee simple, I would have given it away willingly, rather than stand in prison another

month.
The sutlers, to whom I have alluded above, had accumulated sufficient to supply themselves with all the
necessaries and some of the comforts of life, during any probable term of imprisonment, and still have a snug
amount left, but they, would rather give it all up and return to service with their regiments in the field, than
take the chances of any longer continuance in prison.
I can only surmise how much Bowes realized out of the prisoners by his venality, but I feel sure that it could
not have been less than three thousand dollars, and I would not be astonished to learn that it was ten thousand
dollars in green.
CHAPTER LXIV
ANOTHER REMOVAL SHERMAN'S ADVANCE SCARES THE REBELS INTO RUNNING US AWAY
FROM MILLEN WE ARE TAKEN TO SAVANNAH, AND THENCE DOWN THE ATLANTIC & GULF
ROAD TO BLACKSHEAR
One night, toward the last of November, there was a general alarm around the prison. A gun was fired from
the Fort, the long-roll was beaten in the various camps of the guards, and the regiments answered by getting
under arms in haste, and forming near the prison gates.
The reason for this, which we did not learn until weeks later, was that Sherman, who had cut loose from
Atlanta and started on his famous March to the Sea, had taken such a course as rendered it probable that
Millen was one of his objective points. It was, therefore, necessary that we should be hurried away with all
possible speed. As we had had no news from Sherman since the end of the Atlanta campaign, and were
ignorant of his having begun his great raid, we were at an utter loss to account for the commotion among our
keepers.
About 3 o'clock in the morning the Rebel Sergeants, who called the roll, came in and ordered us to turn out
immediately and get ready to move.
The morning was one of the most cheerless I ever knew. A cold rain poured relentlessly down upon us
half-naked, shivering wretches, as we groped around in the darkness for our pitiful little belongings of rags
and cooking utensils, and huddled together in groups, urged on continually by the curses and abuse of the
Rebel officers sent in to get us ready to move.
Though roused at 3 o'clock, the cars were not ready to receive us till nearly noon. In the meantime we stood in
ranks numb, trembling, and heart-sick. The guards around us crouched over fires, and shielded themselves as
best they could with blankets and bits of tent cloth. We had nothing to build fires with, and were not allowed

CHAPTER LXIV 14
to approach those of the guards.
Around us everywhere was the dull, cold, gray, hopeless desolation of the approach of minter. The hard, wiry
grass that thinly covered the once and sand, the occasional stunted weeds, and the sparse foliage of the gnarled
and dwarfish undergrowth, all were parched brown and sere by the fiery heat of the long Summer, and now
rattled drearily under the pitiless, cold rain, streaming from lowering clouds that seemed to have floated down
to us from the cheerless summit of some great iceberg; the tall, naked pines moaned and shivered; dead,
sapless leaves fell wearily to the sodden earth, like withered hopes drifting down to deepen some Slough of
Despond.
Scores of our crowd found this the culmination of their misery. They laid down upon the ground and yielded
to death as s welcome relief, and we left them lying there unburied when we moved to the cars.
As we passed through the Rebel camp at dawn, on our way to the cars, Andrews and I noticed a nest of four
large, bright, new tin pans a rare thing in the Confederacy at that time. We managed to snatch them without
the guard's attention being attracted, and in an instant had them wrapped up in our blanket. But the blanket
was full of holes, and in spite of all our efforts, it would slip at the most inconvenient times, so as to show a
broad glare of the bright metal, just when it seemed it could not help attracting the attention of the guards or
their officers. A dozen times at least we were on the imminent brink of detection, but we finally got our
treasures safely to the cars, and sat down upon them.
The cars were open flats. The rain still beat down unrelentingly. Andrews and I huddled ourselves together so
as to make our bodies afford as much heat as possible, pulled our faithful old overcoat around us as far as it
would go, and endured the inclemency as best we could.
Our train headed back to Savannah, and again our hearts warmed up with hopes of exchange. It seemed as if
there could be no other purpose of taking us out of a prison so recently established and at such cost as Millen.
As we approached the coast the rain ceased, but a piercing cold wind set in, that threatened to convert our
soaked rags into icicles.
Very many died on the way. When we arrived at Savannah almost, if not quite, every car had upon it one
whom hunger no longer gnawed or disease wasted; whom cold had pinched for the last time, and for whom
the golden portals of the Beyond had opened for an exchange that neither Davis nor his despicable tool,
Winder, could control.
We did not sentimentalize over these. We could not mourn; the thousands that we had seen pass away made

that emotion hackneyed and wearisome; with the death of some friend and comrade as regularly an event of
each day as roll call and drawing rations, the sentiment of grief had become nearly obsolete. We were not
hardened; we had simply come to look upon death as commonplace and ordinary. To have had no one dead or
dying around us would have been regarded as singular.
Besides, why should we feel any regret at the passing away of those whose condition would probably be
bettered thereby! It was difficult to see where we who still lived were any better off than they who were gone
before and now "forever at peace, each in his windowless palace of rest." If imprisonment was to continue
only another month, we would rather be with them.
Arriving at Savannah, we were ordered off the cars. A squad from each car carried the dead to a designated
spot, and land them in a row, composing their limbs as well as possible, but giving no other funeral rites, not
even making a record of their names and regiments. Negro laborers came along afterwards, with carts, took
the bodies to some vacant ground, and sunk them out of sight in the sand.
CHAPTER LXIV 15
We were given a few crackers each the same rude imitation of "hard tack" that had been served out to us
when we arrived at Savannah the first time, and then were marched over and put upon a train on the Atlantic
& Gulf Railroad, running from Savannah along the sea coast towards Florida. What this meant we had little
conception, but hope, which sprang eternal in the prisoner's breast, whispered that perhaps it was exchange;
that there was some difficulty about our vessels coming to Savannah, and we were being taken to some other
more convenient sea port; probably to Florida, to deliver us to our folks there. We satisfied ourselves that we
were running along the sea coast by tasting the water in the streams we crossed, whenever we could get an
opportunity to dip up some. As long as the water tasted salty we knew we were near the sea, and hope burned
brightly.
The truth was as we afterwards learned the Rebels were terribly puzzled what to do with us. We were
brought to Savannah, but that did not solve the problem; and we were sent down the Atlantic & Gulf road as a
temporary expedient
The railroad was the worst of the many bad ones which it was my fortune to ride upon in my excursions while
a guest of the Southern Confederacy. It had run down until it had nearly reached the worn-out condition of
that Western road, of which an employee of a rival route once said, "that all there was left of it now was two
streaks of rust and the right of way." As it was one of the non-essential roads to the Southern Confederacy, it
was stripped of the best of its rolling-stock and machinery to supply the other more important lines.

I have before mentioned the scarcity of grease in the South, and the difficulty of supplying the railroads with
lubricants. Apparently there had been no oil on the Atlantic & Gulf since the beginning of the war, and the
screeches of the dry axles revolving in the worn-out boxes were agonizing. Some thing would break on the
cars or blow out on the engine every few miles, necessitating a long stop for repairs. Then there was no supply
of fuel along the line. When the engine ran out of wood it would halt, and a couple of negros riding on the
tender would assail a panel of fence or a fallen tree with their axes, and after an hour or such matter of hard
chopping, would pile sufficient wood upon the tender to enable us to renew our journey.
Frequently the engine stopped as if from sheer fatigue or inanition. The Rebel officers tried to get us to assist
it up the grade by dismounting and pushing behind. We respectfully, but firmly, declined. We were gentlemen
of leisure, we said, and decidedly averse to manual labor; we had been invited on this excursion by Mr. Jeff.
Davis and his friends, who set themselves up as our entertainers, and it would be a gross breach of hospitality
to reflect upon our hosts by working our passage. If this was insisted upon, we should certainly not visit them
again. Besides, it made no difference to us whether the train got along or not. We were not losing anything by
the delay; we were not anxious to go anywhere. One part of the Southern Confederacy was just as good as
another to us. So not a finger could they persuade any of us to raise to help along the journey.
The country we were traversing was sterile and poor worse even than that in the neighborhood of
Andersonville. Farms and farmhouses were scarce, and of towns there were none. Not even a collection of
houses big enough to justify a blacksmith shop or a store appeared along the whole route. But few fields of
any kind were seen, and nowhere was there a farm which gave evidence of a determined effort on the part of
its occupants to till the soil and to improve their condition.
When the train stopped for wood, or for repairs, or from exhaustion, we were allowed to descend from the
cars and stretch our numbed limbs. It did us good in other ways, too. It seemed almost happiness to be outside
of those cursed Stockades, to rest our eyes by looking away through the woods, and seeing birds and animals
that were free. They must be happy, because to us to be free once more was the summit of earthly happiness.
There was a chance, too, to pick up something green to eat, and we were famishing for this. The scurvy still
lingered in our systems, and we were hungry for an antidote. A plant grew rather plentifully along the track
that looked very much as I imagine a palm leaf fan does in its green state. The leaf was not so large as an
ordinary palm leaf fan, and came directly out of the ground. The natives called it "bull-grass," but anything
CHAPTER LXIV 16
more unlike grass I never saw, so we rejected that nomenclature, and dubbed them "green fans." They were

very hard to pull up, it being usually as much as the strongest of us could do to draw them out of the ground.
When pulled up there was found the smallest bit of a stock not as much as a joint of one's little finger that
was eatable. It had no particular taste, and probably little nutriment, still it was fresh and green, and we
strained our weak muscles and enfeebled sinews at every opportunity, endeavoring to pull up a "green fan."
At one place where we stopped there was a makeshift of a garden, one of those sorry "truck patches," which
do poor duty about Southern cabins for the kitchen gardens of the Northern, farmers, and produce a few
coarse cow peas, a scanty lot of collards (a coarse kind of cabbage, with a stalk about a yard long) and some
onions to vary the usual side-meat and corn pone, diet of the Georgia "cracker." Scanning the patch's ruins of
vine arid stalk, Andrews espied a handful of onions, which had; remained ungathered. They tempted him as
the apple did Eve. Without stopping to communicate his intention to me, he sprang from the car, snatched the
onions from their bed, pulled up, half a dozen collard stalks and was on his way back before the guard could
make up his mind to fire upon him. The swiftness of his motions saved his life, for had he been more
deliberate the guard would have concluded he was trying to, escape, and shot him down. As it was he was
returning back before the guard could get his gun up. The onions he had, secured were to us more delicious
than wine upon the lees. They seemed to find their way into every fiber of our bodies, and invigorate every
organ. The collard stalks he had snatched up, in the expectation of finding in them something resembling the
nutritious "heart" that we remembered as children, seeking and, finding in the stalks of cabbage. But we were
disappointed. The stalks were as dry and rotten as the bones of Southern, society. Even hunger could find no
meat in them.
After some days of this leisurely journeying toward the South, we halted permanently about eighty-six miles
from Savannah. There was no reason why we should stop there more than any place else where we had been
or were likely to go. It seemed as if the Rebels had simply tired of hauling us, and dumped us, off. We had
another lot of dead, accumulated since we left Savannah, and the scenes at that place were repeated.
The train returned for another load of prisoners.
CHAPTER LXV
.
BLACKSHEAR AND PIERCE COUNTRY WE TAKE UP NEW QUARTERS, BUT ARE CALLED OUT
FOR EXCHANGE EXCITEMENT OVER SIGNING THE PAROLE A HAPPY JOURNEY TO
SAVANNAH GRIEVOUS DISAPPOINTMENT
We were informed that the place we were at was Blackshear, and that it was the Court House, i. e., the County

seat of Pierce County. Where they kept the Court House, or County seat, is beyond conjecture to me, since I
could not see a half dozen houses in the whole clearing, and not one of them was a respectable dwelling,
taking even so low a standard for respectable dwellings as that afforded by the majority of Georgia houses.
Pierce County, as I have since learned by the census report, is one of the poorest Counties of a poor section of
a very poor State. A population of less than two thousand is thinly scattered over its five hundred square miles
of territory, and gain a meager subsistence by a weak simulation of cultivating patches of its sandy dunes and
plains in "nubbin" corn and dropsical sweet potatos. A few "razor-back" hogs a species so gaunt and thin
that I heard a man once declare that he had stopped a lot belonging to a neighbor from crawling through the
cracks of a tight board fence by simply tying a knot in their tails roam the woods, and supply all the meat
used.
Andrews used to insist that some of the hogs which we saw were so thin that the connection between their
fore and hindquarters was only a single thickness of skin, with hair on both sides but then Andrews
CHAPTER LXV 17
sometimes seemed to me to have a tendency to exaggerate.
The swine certainly did have proportions that strongly resembled those of the animals which children cut out
of cardboard. They were like the geometrical definition of a superfice all length and breadth, and no
thickness. A ham from them would look like a palm-leaf fan.
I never ceased to marvel at the delicate adjustment of the development of animal life to the soil in these lean
sections of Georgia. The poor land would not maintain anything but lank, lazy men, with few wants, and none
but lank, lazy men, with few wants, sought a maintenance from it. I may have tangled up cause and effect, in
this proposition, but if so, the reader can disentangle them at his leisure.
I was not astonished to learn that it took five hundred square miles of Pierce County land to maintain two
thousand "crackers," even as poorly as they lived. I should want fully that much of it to support one fair- sized
Northern family as it should be.
After leaving the cars we were marched off into the pine woods, by the side of a considerable stream, and told
that this was to be our camp. A heavy guard was placed around us, and a number of pieces of artillery
mounted where they would command the camp.
We started in to make ourselves comfortable, as at Millen, by building shanties. The prisoners we left behind
followed us, and we soon had our old crowd of five or six thousand, who had been our companions at
Savannah and Millers, again with us. The place looked very favorable for escape. We knew we were still near

the sea coast really not more than forty miles away and we felt that if we could once get there we should be
safe. Andrews and I meditated plans of escape, and toiled away at our cabin.
About a week after our arrival we were startled by an order for the one thousand of us who had first arrived to
get ready to move out. In a few minutes we were taken outside the guard line, massed close together, and
informed in a few words by a Rebel officer that we were about to be taken back to Savannah for exchange.
The announcement took away our breath. For an instant the rush of emotion made us speechless, and when
utterance returned, the first use we made of it was to join in one simultaneous outburst of acclamation. Those
inside the guard line, understanding what our cheer meant, answered us with a loud shout of
congratulation the first real, genuine, hearty cheering that had been done since receiving the announcement
of the exchange at Andersonville, three months before.
As soon as the excitement had subsided somewhat, the Rebel proceeded to explain that we would all be
required to sign a parole. This set us to thinking. After our scornful rejection of the proposition to enlist in the
Rebel army, the Rebels had felt around among us considerably as to how we were disposed toward taking
what was called the "Non-Combatant's Oath;" that is, the swearing not to take up arms against the Southern
Confederacy again during the war. To the most of us this seemed only a little less dishonorable than joining
the Rebel army. We held that our oaths to our own Government placed us at its disposal until it chose to
discharge us, and we could not make any engagements with its enemies that might come in contravention of
that duty. In short, it looked very much like desertion, and this we did not feel at liberty to consider.
There were still many among us, who, feeling certain that they could not survive imprisonment much longer,
were disposed to look favorably upon the Non-Combatant's Oath, thinking that the circumstances of the case
would justify their apparent dereliction from duty. Whether it would or not I must leave to more skilled
casuists than myself to decide. It was a matter I believed every man must settle with his own conscience. The
opinion that I then held and expressed was, that if a boy, felt that he was hopelessly sick, and that he could not
live if he remained in prison, he was justified in taking the Oath. In the absence of our own Surgeons he
would have to decide for himself whether be was sick enough to be warranted in resorting to this means of
saving his life. If he was in as good health as the majority of us were, with a reasonable prospect of surviving
CHAPTER LXV 18
some weeks longer, there was no excuse for taking the Oath, for in that few weeks we might be exchanged, be
recaptured, or make our escape. I think this was the general opinion of the prisoners.
While the Rebel was talking about our signing the parole, there flashed upon all of us at the same moment, a

suspicion that this was a trap to delude us into signing the Non-Combatant's Oath. Instantly there went up a
general shout:
"Read the parole to us."
The Rebel was handed a blank parole by a companion, and he read over the printed condition at the top, which
was that those signing agreed not to bear arms against the Confederates in the field, or in garrison, not to man
any works, assist in any expedition, do any sort of guard duty, serve in any military constabulary, or perform
any kind of military service until properly exchanged.
For a minute this was satisfactory; then their ingrained distrust of any thing a Rebel said or did returned, and
they shouted:
"No, no; let some of us read it; let Ilinoy' read it "
The Rebel looked around in a puzzled manner.
"Who the h l is 'Illinoy!' Where is he?" said he.
I saluted and said:
"That's a nickname they give me."
"Very well," said he, "get up on this stump and read this parole to these d d fools that won't believe me."
I mounted the stump, took the blank from his hand and read it over slowly, giving as much emphasis as
possible to the all-important clause at the end "until properly exchanged." I then said:
"Boys, this seems all right to me," and they answered, with almost one voice:
"Yes, that's all right. We'll sign that."
I was never so proud of the American soldier-boy as at that moment. They all felt that signing that paper was
to give them freedom and life. They knew too well from sad experience what the alternative was. Many felt
that unless released another week would see them in their graves. All knew that every day's stay in Rebel
hands greatly lessened their chances of life. Yet in all that thousand there was not one voice in favor of
yielding a tittle of honor to save life. They would secure their freedom honorably, or die faithfully. Remember
that this was a miscellaneous crowd of boys, gathered from all sections of the country, and from many of
whom no exalted conceptions of duty and honor were expected. I wish some one would point out to me, on
the brightest pages of knightly record, some deed of fealty and truth that equals the simple fidelity of these
unknown heros. I do not think that one of them felt that he was doing anything especially meritorious. He only
obeyed the natural promptings of his loyal heart.
The business of signing the paroles was then begun in earnest. We were separated into squads according to the

first letters of our names, all those whose name began with A being placed in one squad, those beginning with
B, in another, and so on. Blank paroles for each letter were spread out on boxes and planks at different places,
and the signing went on under the superintendence of a Rebel Sergeant and one of the prisoners. The squad of
M's selected me to superintend the signing for us, and I stood by to direct the boys, and sign for the very few
CHAPTER LXV 19
who could not write. After this was done we fell into ranks again, called the roll of the signers, and carefully
compared the number of men with the number of signatures so that nobody should pass unparoled. The oath
was then administered to us, and two day's rations of corn meal and fresh beef were issued.
This formality removed the last lingering doubt that we had of the exchange being a reality, and we gave way
to the happiest emotions. We cheered ourselves hoarse, and the fellows still inside followed our example, as
they expected that they would share our good fortune in a day or two.
Our next performance was to set to work, cook our two days' rations at once and eat them. This was not very
difficult, as the whole supply for two days would hardly make one square meal. That done, many of the boys
went to the guard line and threw their blankets, clothing, cooking utensils, etc., to their comrades who were
still inside. No one thought they would have any further use for such things.
"To-morrow, at this time, thank Heaven," said a boy near me, as he tossed his blanket and overcoat back to
some one inside, "we'll be in God's country, and then I wouldn't touch them d d lousy old rags with a ten-
foot pole."
One of the boys in the M squad was a Maine infantryman, who had been with me in the Pemberton building,
in Richmond, and had fashioned himself a little square pan out of a tin plate of a tobacco press, such as I have
described in an earlier chapter. He had carried it with him ever since, and it was his sole vessel for all
purposes for cooking, carrying water, drawing rations, etc. He had cherished it as if it were a farm or a good
situation. But now, as he turned away from signing his name to the parole, he looked at his faithful servant for
a minute in undisguised contempt; on the eve of restoration to happier, better things, it was a reminder of all
the petty, inglorious contemptible trials and sorrows he had endured; he actually loathed it for its
remembrances, and flinging it upon the ground he crushed it out of all shape and usefulness with his feet,
trampling upon it as he would everything connected with his prison life. Months afterward I had to lend this
man my little can to cook his rations in.
Andrews and I flung the bright new tin pans we had stolen at Millen inside the line, to be scrambled for. It
was hard to tell who were the most surprised at their appearance the Rebels or our own boys for few had

any idea that there were such things in the whole Confederacy, and certainly none looked for them in the
possession of two such poverty- stricken specimens as we were. We thought it best to retain possession of our
little can, spoon, chess-board, blanket, and overcoat.
As we marched down and boarded the train, the Rebels confirmed their previous action by taking all the
guards from around us. Only some eight or ten were sent to the train, and these quartered themselves in the
caboose, and paid us no further attention.
The train rolled away amid cheering by ourselves and those we left behind. One thousand happier boys than
we never started on a journey. We were going home. That was enough to wreathe the skies with glory, and fill
the world with sweetness and light. The wintry sun had something of geniality and warmth, the landscape lost
some of its repulsiveness, the dreary palmettos had less of that hideousness which made us regard them as
very fitting emblems of treason. We even began to feel a little good- humored contempt for our hateful little
Brats of guards, and to reflect how much vicious education and surroundings were to be held responsible for
their misdeeds.
We laughed and sang as we rolled along toward Savannah going back much faster than the came. We re-told
old stories, and repeated old jokes, that had become wearisome months and months ago, but were now
freshened up and given their olden pith by the joyousness of the occasion. We revived and talked over old
schemes gotten up in the earlier days of prison life, of what "we would do when we got out," but almost
forgotten since, in the general uncertainty of ever getting out. We exchanged addresses, and promised
faithfully to write to each other and tell how we found everything at home.
CHAPTER LXV 20
So the afternoon and night passed. We were too excited to sleep, and passed the hours watching the scenery,
recalling the objects we had passed on the way to Blackshear, and guessing how near we were to Savannah.
Though we were running along within fifteen or twenty miles of the coast, with all our guards asleep in the
caboose, no one thought of escape. We could step off the cars and walk over to the seashore as easily as a man
steps out of his door and walks to a neighboring town, but why should we? Were we not going directly to our
vessels in the harbor of Savannah, and was it not better to do this, than to take the chances of escaping, and
encounter the difficulties of reaching our blockaders! We thought so, and we staid on the cars.
A cold, gray Winter morning was just breaking as we reached Savannah. Our train ran down in the City, and
then whistled sharply and ran back a mile or so; it repeated this maneuver two or three times, the evident
design being to keep us on the cars until the people were ready to receive us. Finally our engine ran with all

the speed she was capable of, and as the train dashed into the street we found ourselves between two heavy
lines of guards with bayonets fixed.
The whole sickening reality was made apparent by one glance at the guard line. Our parole was a mockery, its
only object being to get us to Savannah as easily as possible, and to prevent benefit from our recapture to any
of Sherman's Raiders, who might make a dash for the railroad while we were in transit. There had been no
intention of exchanging us. There was no exchange going on at Savannah.
After all, I do not think we felt the disappointment as keenly as the first time we were brought to Savannah.
Imprisonment had stupefied us; we were duller and more hopeless.
Ordered down out of the cars, we were formed in line in the street.
Said a Rebel officer:
"Now, any of you fellahs that ah too sick to go to Chahlston, step fohwahd one pace."
We looked at each other an instant, and then the whole line stepped forward. We all felt too sick to go to
Charleston, or to do anything else in the world.
CHAPTER LXVI
.
SPECIMEN CONVERSATION WITH AN AVERAGE NATIVE GEORGIAN WE LEARN THAT
SHERMAN IS HEADING FOR SAVANNAH THE RESERVES GET A LITTLE SETTLING DOWN.
As the train left the northern suburbs of Savannah we came upon a scene of busy activity, strongly contrasting
with the somnolent lethargy that seemed to be the normal condition of the City and its inhabitants. Long lines
of earthworks were being constructed, gangs of negros were felling trees, building forts and batteries, making
abatis, and toiling with numbers of huge guns which were being moved out and placed in position.
As we had had no new prisoners nor any papers for some weeks the papers being doubtless designedly kept
away from us we were at a loss to know what this meant. We could not understand this erection of
fortifications on that side, because, knowing as we did how well the flanks of the City were protected by the
Savannah and Ogeeche Rivers, we could not see how a force from the coast whence we supposed an attack
must come, could hope to reach the City's rear, especially as we had just come up on the right flank of the
City, and saw no sign of our folks in that direction.
CHAPTER LXVI 21
Our train stopped for a few minutes at the edge of this line of works, and an old citizen who had been
surveying the scene with senile interest, tottered over to our car to take a look at us. He was a type of the old

man of the South of the scanty middle class, the small farmer. Long white hair and beard, spectacles with
great round, staring glasses, a broad-brimmed hat of ante-Revolutionary pattern, clothes that had apparently
descended to him from some ancestor who had come over with Oglethorpe, and a two-handed staff with a
head of buckhorn, upon which he leaned as old peasants do in plays, formed such an image as recalled to me
the picture of the old man in the illustrations in "The Dairyman's Daughter." He was as garrulous as a magpie,
and as opinionated as a Southern white always is. Halting in front of our car, he steadied himself by planting
his staff, clasping it with both lean and skinny hands, and leaning forward upon it, his jaws then addressed
themselves to motion thus:
"Boys, who mout these be that ye got? "One of the Guards: "O, these is some Yanks that we've bin hivin'
down at Camp Sumter."
"Yes?" (with an upward inflection of the voice, followed by a close scrutiny of us through the goggle-eyed
glasses,) "Wall, they're a powerful ornary lookin' lot, I'll declah."
It will be seen that the old, gentleman's perceptive powers were much more highly developed than his
politeness.
"Well, they ain't what ye mout call purty, that's a fack," said the guard.
"So yer Yanks, air ye?" said the venerable Goober-Grabber, (the nick-name in the South for Georgians),
directing his conversation to me. "Wall, I'm powerful glad to see ye, an' 'specially whar ye can't do no harm;
I've wanted to see some Yankees ever sence the beginnin' of the wah, but hev never had no chance. Whah did
ye cum from?"
I seemed called upon to answer, and said: "I came from Illinois; most of the boys in this car are from Illinois,
Ohio, Indiana, Michigan and Iowa."
"'Deed! All Westerners, air ye? Wall, do ye know I alluz liked the Westerners a heap sight better than them
blue-bellied New England Yankees."
No discussion with a Rebel ever proceeded very far without his making an assertion like this. It was a favorite
declaration of theirs, but its absurdity was comical, when one remembered that the majority of them could not
for their lives tell the names of the New England States, and could no more distinguish a Downeaster from an
Illinoisan than they could tell a Saxon from a Bavarian. One day, while I was holding a conversation similar
to the above with an old man on guard, another guard, who had been stationed near a squad made up of
Germans, that talked altogether in the language of the Fatherland, broke in with:
"Out there by post numbah foahteen, where I wuz yesterday, there's a lot of Yanks who jest jabbered away all

the hull time, and I hope I may never see the back of my neck ef I could understand ary word they said, Are
them the regular blue-belly kind?"
The old gentleman entered upon the next stage of the invariable routine of discussion with a Rebel:
"Wall, what air you'uns down heah, a-fightin' we'uns foh?"
As I had answered this question several hundred times, I had found the most extinguishing reply to be to ask
in return:
"What are you'uns coming up into our country to fight we'uns for?"
CHAPTER LXVI 22
Disdaining to notice this return in kind, the old man passed on to the next stage:
"What are you'uns takin' ouah niggahs away from us foh?"
Now, if negros had been as cheap as oreoide watches, it is doubtful whether the speaker had ever had money
enough in his possession at one time to buy one, and yet he talked of taking away "ouah niggahs," as if they
were as plenty about his place as hills of corn. As a rule, the more abjectly poor a Southerner was, the more
readily he worked himself into a rage over the idea of "takin' away ouah niggahs."
I replied in burlesque of his assumption of ownership:
"What are you coming up North to burn my rolling mills and rob my comrade here's bank, and plunder my
brother's store, and burn down my uncle's factories?"
No reply, to this counter thrust. The old man passed to the third inevitable proposition:
"What air you'uns puttin' ouah niggahs in the field to fight we'uns foh?"
Then the whole car-load shouted back at him at once:
"What are you'uns putting blood-hounds on our trails to hunt us down, for?"
Old Man (savagely), "Waal, ye don't think ye kin ever lick us; leastways sich fellers as ye air?"
Myself "Well, we warmed it to you pretty lively until you caught us. There were none of us but what were
doing about as good work as any stock you fellows could turn out. No Rebels in our neighborhood had much
to brag on. We are not a drop in the bucket, either. There's millions more better men than we are where we
came from, and they are all determined to stamp out your miserable Confederacy. You've got to come to it,
sooner or later; you must knock under, sure as white blossoms make little apples. You'd better make up your
mind to it."
Old Man "No, sah, nevah. Ye nevah kin conquer us! We're the bravest people and the best fighters on airth.
Ye nevah kin whip any people that's a fightin' fur their liberty an' their right; an' ye nevah can whip the South,

sah, any way. We'll fight ye until all the men air killed, and then the wimmen'll fight ye, sah."
Myself "Well, you may think so, or you may not. From the way our boys are snatching the Confederacy's
real estate away, it begins to look as if you'd not have enough to fight anybody on pretty soon. What's the
meaning of all this fortifying?"
Old Man "Why, don't you know? Our folks are fixin' up a place foh Bill Sherman to butt his brains out
gain'."
"Bill Sherman!" we all shouted in surprise: "Why he ain't within two hundred miles of this place, is he?"
Old Man "Yes, but he is, tho'. He thinks he's played a sharp Yankee trick on Hood. He found out he couldn't
lick him in a squar' fight, nohow; he'd tried that on too often; so he just sneaked 'round behind him, and made
a break for the center of the State, where he thought there was lots of good stealin' to be done. But we'll show
him. We'll soon hev him just whar we want him, an' we'll learn him how to go traipesin' 'round the country,
stealin' nigahs, burnin' cotton, an' runnin' off folkses' beef critters. He sees now the scrape he's got into, an'
he's tryin' to get to the coast, whar the gun-boats'll help 'im out. But he'll nevah git thar, sah; no sah, nevah.
He's mouty nigh the end of his rope, sah, and we'll purty' soon hev him jist whar you fellows air, sah."
CHAPTER LXVI 23
Myself "Well, if you fellows intended stopping him, why didn't you do it up about Atlanta? What did you let
him come clear through the State, burning and stealing, as you say? It was money in your pockets to head him
off as soon as possible."
Old Man "Oh, we didn't set nothing afore him up thar except Joe Brown's Pets, these sorry little Reserves;
they're powerful little account; no stand-up to'em at all; they'd break their necks runnin' away ef ye so much as
bust a cap near to 'em."
Our guards, who belonged to these Reserves, instantly felt that the conversation had progressed farther than
was profitable and one of them spoke up roughly:
"See heah, old man, you must go off; I can't hev ye talkin' to these prisoners; hits agin my awdahs. Go 'way
now!"
The old fellow moved off, but as he did he flung this Parthian arrow:
"When Sherman gits down deep, he'll find somethin' different from the little snots of Reserves he ran over
up about Milledgeville; he'll find he's got to fight real soldiers."
We could not help enjoying the rage of the guards, over the low estimate placed upon the fighting ability of
themselves and comrades, and as they raved, around about what they would do if they were only given an

opportunity to go into a line of battle against Sherman, we added fuel to the flames of their anger by confiding
to each other that we always "knew that little Brats whose highest ambition was to murder a defenseless
prisoner, could be nothing else than cowards end skulkers in the field."
"Yaas sonnies," said Charlie Burroughs, of the Third Michigan, in that nasal Yankee drawl, that he always
assumed, when he wanted to say anything very cutting; "you trundle bed soldiers who've never seen
a real wild Yankee don't know how different they are from the kind that are starved down to
tameness. They're jest as different as a lion in a menagerie is from his brother in the
woods who has a nigger every day for-dinner. You fellows will
go into a circus tent and throw tobacco quids in the face of
the lion in the cage when you haven't spunk enough to look a
woodchuck in the eye if you met him alone. It's lots o' fun to
you to shoot down a sick and starving-man in the Stockade, but when you see a Yank
with a gun in his hand your livers
get so white that chalk would make a black mark on 'em."
A little later, a paper, which some one had gotten hold of, in some mysterious manner, was secretly passed to
me. I read it as I could find opportunity, and communicated its contents to the rest of the boys. The most
important of these was a flaming proclamation by Governor Joe Brown, setting forth that General Sherman
was now traversing the State, committing all sorts of depredations; that he had prepared the way for his own
destruction, and the Governor called upon all good citizens to rise en masse, and assist in crushing the
audacious invader. Bridges must be burned before and behind him, roads obstructed, and every inch of soil
resolutely disputed.
We enjoyed this. It showed that the Rebels were terribly alarmed, and we began to feel some of that
confidence that "Sherman will come out all right," which so marvelously animated all under his command.
CHAPTER LXVI 24
CHAPTER LXVII
.
OFF TO CHARLESTON PASSING THROUGH THE RICE SWAMPS TWO EXTREMES OF
SOCIETY ENTRY INTO CHARLESTON LEISURELY WARFARE SHELLING THE CITY AT
REGULAR INTERVALS WE CAMP IN A MASS OF RUINS DEPARTURE FOR FLORENCE.
The train started in a few minutes after the close of the conversation with the old Georgian, and we soon came

to and crossed the Savannah River into South Carolina. The river was wide and apparently deep; the tide was
setting back in a swift, muddy current; the crazy old bridge creaked and shook, and the grinding axles
shrieked in the dry journals, as we pulled across. It looked very much at times as if we were to all crash down
into the turbid flood and we did not care very much if we did, if we were not going to be exchanged.
The road lay through the tide swamp region of South Carolina, a peculiar and interesting country. Though
swamps and fens stretched in all directions as far as the eye could reach, the landscape was more grateful to
the eye than the famine-stricken, pine-barrens of Georgia, which had become wearisome to the sight. The soil
where it appeared, was rich, vegetation was luxuriant; great clumps of laurel showed glossy richness in the
greenness of its verdure, that reminded us of the fresh color of the vegetation of our Northern homes, so
different from the parched and impoverished look of Georgian foliage. Immense flocks of wild fowl fluttered
around us; the Georgian woods were almost destitute of living creatures; the evergreen live-oak, with its queer
festoons of Spanish moss, and the ugly and useless palmettos gave novelty and interest to the view.
The rice swamps through which we were passing were the princely possessions of the few nabobs who before
the war stood at the head of South Carolina aristocracy they were South Carolina, in fact, as absolutely as
Louis XIV. was France. In their hands but a few score in number was concentrated about all there was of
South Carolina education, wealth, culture, and breeding. They represented a pinchbeck imitation of that
regime in France which was happily swept out of existence by the Revolution, and the destruction of which
more than compensated for every drop of blood shed in those terrible days. Like the provincial 'grandes
seigneurs' of Louis XVI's reign, they were gay, dissipated and turbulent; "accomplished" in the superficial
acquirements that made the "gentleman" one hundred years ago, but are grotesquely out of place in this
sensible, solid age, which demands that a man shall be of use, and not merely for show. They ran horses and
fought cocks, dawdled through society when young, and intrigued in politics the rest of their lives, with
frequent spice-work of duels. Esteeming personal courage as a supreme human virtue, and never wearying of
prating their devotion to the highest standard of intrepidity, they never produced a General who was even
mediocre; nor did any one ever hear of a South Carolina regiment gaining distinction. Regarding politics and
the art of government as, equally with arms, their natural vocations, they have never given the Nation a
statesman, and their greatest politicians achieved eminence by advocating ideas which only attracted attention
by their balefulness.
Still further resembling the French 'grandes seigneurs' of the eighteenth century, they rolled in wealth wrung
from the laborer by reducing the rewards of his toil to the last fraction that would support his life and strength.

The rice culture was immensely profitable, because they had found the secret for raising it more cheaply than
even the pauper laborer of the of world could. Their lands had cost them nothing originally, the improvements
of dikes and ditches were comparatively, inexpensive, the taxes were nominal, and their slaves were not so
expensive to keep as good horses in the North.
Thousands of the acres along the road belonged to the Rhetts, thousands to the Heywards, thousands to the
Manigault the Lowndes, the Middletons, the Hugers, the Barnwells, and the Elliots all names too well known
in the history of our country's sorrows. Occasionally one of their stately mansions could be seen on some
distant elevation, surrounded by noble old trees, and superb grounds. Here they lived during the healthy part
of the year, but fled thence to summer resort in the highlands as the miasmatic season approached.
CHAPTER LXVII 25